


Sayonara Blues

by somedaysomewhere



Category: X1 (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Edo Period, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Joseon Dynasty, M/M, Minor Violence, Painter!Seungyoun, Swordsman!Seungwoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22598293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somedaysomewhere/pseuds/somedaysomewhere
Summary: A wave man moves with the flow; he lets the tide take him where it wants to go.
Relationships: Cho Seungyeon | Seungyoun/Han Seungwoo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 86





	Sayonara Blues

According to the paperback he’s holding, the word rōnin translates to “wave man.” Seungwoo is amazed at how it perfectly captures his current state: adrift and wandering. Without a lord, he is now relieved of his duties. But independence has always been a novelty, and he isn’t sure what it means to be free.

He was assigned to work for Kim Yohan, the eldest and only male of the fourth-generation Kim clan. The Kims are one of Seoul’s distinguished feudal lords, controlling the entirety of Jungnang-gu in their hands. Several citizens are employed as their servants under various functions and branches.

Seungwoo’s responsibilities lie in combat. He possesses a ssanggeom which he wields whenever necessary. Both swords are similar in appearance: long, thin and with brass hilts, except one has a scarlet ribbon attached to its pommel. His fighting skills and name are well-known throughout the city.

He’s witnessed things that would make weaker men fall to their knees. Like trauma that sticks to the skin, blood-curdling, evil and sickening. Battles had made nightmares the standard of his days. At its worst, he would clearly recall how a head was split.

But it’s what his role entails; to drive away intruders, to silence anyone who rebels. To protect the future heir of the family even at the cost of losing himself. It’s the only thing he’s adept at and now that it’s been concluded, he is at a loss where to go next.

Yohan fell out of favor after eloping with his advisor, Lee Hangyul. Their relationship was a scandal that rocked the whole clan, dividing the family into supporters and antagonists. Coming to a decision was an arduous process, with his lord being subjected to weekly private hearings. In the end, traditional customs won over and both were sentenced to death at the end of the year.

However, on August 24, a maid fetched Yohan for breakfast and found his chamber empty. The guards then hurried to the advisor’s quarters only to be also welcomed by vacancy. After three days of pursuit, it was formally announced: Kim Yohan and Lee Hangyul had defected. They were stripped of their privileges and were effectively banned from the main house, including everyone who served under them.

Today is the 31st, the final grace period for their servants to leave. Seungwoo packs his things and takes a last look at the space that has become his refuge over the years. He clutches his swords close as he marches into the unknown.

At the end of summer, he commences his journey.

  
  
  
  


A wave man moves with the flow; he lets the tide take him where it wants to go. It first washes him to Gwangjin-gu, a neighboring district to the north of Han River. Fall is beginning to set in, the leaves curling around the edges and turning into orange and burgundy. 

Seungwoo has a winter birthday, but it’s during autumn when his soul fully blooms. He feels at his most centered, his mind and body and heart in their proper places. He inhales the crisp air, adjusts the straps of his geomjip and walks towards the one-bedroom apartment he rented. According to the landlord, it’s located in Jayang-dong.

The room he’s staying in has peeling wallpaper and faded wooden floors. A single bed is situated near the window and on the side table is a vase with two dried flowers. The dresser can only hold twenty pieces of garments. He doesn’t mind, there isn’t a lot he owns anyway.

He takes his shoes off, then his jeogori and baji, every removal an act of unburdening. He was wearing these when he left. Now that he’s out of them, it finally sinks in that everything is different.

Seungwoo lingers for a month. He becomes familiar with the stores and alleys. The market vendors greet him by name every morning. He watches the streets fill with colorful monochrome leaves. Gwangjin treats him kindly and over time, he regains his footing.

But waves come and go. While the district is homely, it’s not where he belongs. Gwangjin taught him balance, to be steady even in unrest. It’s something he will never forget.

Before he departs, he replaces the dried flowers with a lilac sprig.

  
  
  
  


The ebb settles next in Seongdong-gu, a district favored with rivers and lush forests. A merchant approaches Seungwoo upon his arrival to sell and share a legend about Zelkova trees.

“It’s said to keep demons out of villages,” the merchant begins, pointing at the tree behind him. “It also grants wishes.”

Seungwoo scans the goods, uninterested in what the merchant was saying. “That tree is mighty then if it has two abilities at the same time.” He picks up an item and hands it to him.

“That will be 30 won,” the merchant says, reaching for the item. It is then wrapped in parchment paper and packed into a kraft box. “Who knows. They claim we had prospered and that people got what they wanted. I’ve been wishing for a long time though and life’s still the same.”

“Well, maybe it’s better to act instead. Hard work doesn’t betray.”

The man looks at him solemnly. “Have you ever wished for anything?”

Seungwoo racks his brain for an answer as he counts his change. “Not recently, no.” His life had centered around orders and protocols. There wasn’t much room for anything else.

“Then you haven’t desired enough. Want is powerful—it makes you believe in the intangible, in what possibly is nonexistent. You don’t wish for something you can easily attain. You wish for things that are out of reach.”

The merchant carries on his way, pushing his cart along and thanking him for business. Seungwoo contemplates about what he said. He understands _want;_ he has felt it on different occasions. But if he wanted something badly, he’d rather work for it than trust an entity to deliver it at his doorstep. For instance, he’s craving samgyetang and he’s going to get it himself.

The samgyetang restaurant is shabby and run-down; if he wasn’t famished, he’d search for another place. Light flickers on five sets of oak tables and beaten chairs. He chooses the seat nearest to the door.

An ahjumma in pink shows up with his orders. She must be the cook, judging from the cuts and calluses on her hands. In the next few days, Seungwoo will know her name, about the family she abandoned and how she ended up in Oksu-dong. In the course of a month, Seongdong and this ahjumma will teach him amiability, to be open to connections and new beginnings.

It’s something he will need, for the next district will have a few surprises up its sleeve.

  
  
  
  


Yongsan-gu is hard and sharp-edged. Unlike in the first two districts, its people are more reserved, preferring to mind their distance and business. Seungwoo trudges to the shared hanok he booked last minute. The upcoming holidays had made it difficult to find cheaper lodging.

He unlocks the gate. Apparently, one more person will reside with him. He surveys the area and checks if anything is weird or sketchy. When he’s certain that everything is normal, he lets out a sigh of relief.

There already are personal touches to the house—today’s newspaper on the table, a jar full of loose-leaf tea, a pair of slippers by the entrance—so he assumes his housemate had arrived earlier than him. 

“Hello?,” he greets. He receives no reply.

 _The person must be out._ Seungwoo proceeds to search for his bedroom instead—there, third door on the hallway, next to the common bathroom. Once inside, he hides both of his swords in the closet. He lays his belongings on the floor before changing into comfortable clothes.

He lies on the mattress. It’s the last week of November, the fall season on its last legs. The thought of it causes exhaustion to creep in and before he knows it, he is fast asleep.

He dreams of picking tangerines in spring; of darkness and his mother who was taken by the sea. It was pronounced as an accident, but her eyes were the loneliest Seungwoo had ever seen. He replenishes her grave monthly with lilacs, her favorite.

He dreams of chasing tales, of running in circles, of a boy who croons lullabies when sleep is elusive. This is the hardest to wake up from. Even when he opens his eyes, the voice continues to sing.

“Hi. Are you awake? I prepared dinner. Please don’t hesitate to eat if you’re hungry.” It almost sounds like the voice in his dreams, but he shrugs it off, thinking it must be his exhaustion mistaking things.

Seungwoo blinks the forty winks off his eyes. It’s dark; the time exactly eight in the evening. He doesn’t feel like eating, but he has to at least be civil with the person he’s going to live with. 

The aroma of grilled meat permeates the house. He proceeds to the dining table, his gentlest smile ready to emerge. But then he registers who is sitting, and he wonders if this is all a fever dream.

_Seungyoun._

Turbulence. This is what Yongsan brings.

  
  
  
  


A wave man moves with the flow, whether the wind blows west or east, wherever the compass points. Sometimes, the destination is what you least expect: a person.

Seungyoun was a painter for Yohan. He was brilliant at what he did, imagining scenes and landscapes for a lord with boundless curiosity. Yohan wasn’t allowed to travel. Because he couldn’t go himself, he requested for the places to be illustrated instead.

In the beginning, Seungwoo didn’t pay much attention to him. He would bow and compliment his colorful hanboks when they passed by each other, but other than that, they never really talked. Their positions didn’t overlap and there wasn’t any reason for an interaction. But on one of Seungwoo’s late night trainings, he happened to witness a marvel. It was a ruby-throated hummingbird at dawn.

“You’re good,” he praised.

Seungyoun only grinned. “I couldn’t sleep so I was singing to myself.”

Since then, Seungwoo would listen to his lullabies; his voice soothed the weight of bloodshed. He also studied his masterpieces, watched him create worlds with strokes and canvases.

It was easy to forget about other things. Often, he had to be reminded. But Seungyoun—he was always in his head.

They stay inside his bedroom as Seungyoun draws Hokusai waves on his wrists. His brows furrow in concentration, an adorable habit he slips into whenever he paints.

“Why did you leave without telling me? I know we were ordered to go, but I was destroyed when I opened your door and nobody was there,” Seungyoun questions, not looking at him.

His tone is sobering. Seungwoo then remembers it’s not time for rainbows yet. “It’s just… I’m used to deciding on my own. But that’s no excuse. I was also afraid. When you confessed, I didn’t want to say the wrong answer.”

“Didn’t it occur to you that running away could be interpreted as a response?”

He remains hushed. It’s true. If the same had been done to him, he would’ve seen it as a rejection.

“You’re lucky I’m stubborn. That I trusted my instincts when it told me it was probably just you shutting things out as usual,” Seungyoun says, dipping his filbert brush in a cup of murky water. “I made efforts, you know. I even went to Busan. Found nothing but fish. Ironically, the moment I stopped seeking, you appeared,” he continues to complain, as if he can’t believe the timing.

Seungwoo isn’t superstitious. He’d rather rely on his own strength than unworldly beings. But some things are too peculiar for coincidences, and there must be a higher hand that orchestrates these.

“I’m sorry. I don’t regret going away because it was what I needed, but I regret not saying anything and not making things clear before I went. I shouldn’t have disrespected your honesty.”

“You can make it up to me by taking me along wherever you go.” Seungyoun kisses him first. He’s always been brave—the initial step, the first flower after snow, the beginning of a story. Seungwoo pledges to match his courage.

It’s strange how one can know something intimately and still be afraid of it. Like chaos and death, like love and loneliness. He dives in despite being plagued by hesitations. Untying the other’s dopo tests his patience, and he takes one of his swords and slashes it instead.

  
  
  
  


Brutal winters mean being holed up all day. They don’t mind; there are histories they have yet to open.

“Here.” Seungwoo reaches for a box inside the drawer and passes it to the hand beside his.

Seungyoun stares at him quizzically. “What is this?”

He shrugs. “Something useful.”

He feels nervous as the packaging is quickly torn and the paintbrushes are revealed. The moment he saw it back in Seongdong, he knew he wanted to buy it as a gift. Each brush has gold engravings which when put together forms the Big Dipper. It’s Seungyoun in a nutshell—larger than life, scintillating, brighter than anybody he had met.

He studies the other’s face. Initially, Seungyoun’s expression seems nonplussed, then it morphs into a wide smile that turns his eyes into crescents. 

It takes Seungwoo’s breath away.

It makes his heart overflow and swell. Battles had made disarray the standard of his days. However, there’s nothing now but quiet, and he counts it as a miracle.

Contentment. This is what Yongsan gives.

  
  
  
  


Sometimes, the waves are tranquil. It tides them to Mapo-gu, a place with a distinct, youthful vibe. It’s the most modern out of the districts so far, as seen on its diverse food and burgeoning nightscene.

The streets are invariably busy. People roam around freely even at midnight. At first, the energy unsettles Seungwoo—social settings rarely appealed to him. He likes his alone time, preferably with earl grey tea and a dash of guilt. Still, he warms up eventually. 

Seungyoun looks delighted as well, evident in the speed in which he gobbles down local delicacies. Mapo has an unexpected artistic side to it, and they spend their days touring galleries and quaint shops. They visit stylish underground bars and pretend to be in movies. They enjoy open-air stages hand in hand, viewing romantic plays and tragedies.

“Hyung, look at this!”

Having almost 1,300 square meters in area, the art supplies store is heaven for artists like Seungyoun. He’s standing in front of a shelf with oil and acrylic pigments. “They have a 30-color oil paint set. That’s the most I’ve encountered,” he beams.

“Are you going to buy it?,” Seungwoo asks, stopping to peruse materials. 

“Yes. I don’t know if I’ll find something like this again. This store, really... I think I’m going to be broke,” Seungyoun laments unconvincingly.

Every time he is like this, Seungwoo can’t help but remember the merchant with the story about trees. He recognizes it now, what it means when he said that wishes are for things that are out of your reach. He longs for this happiness to last as long as it can.

In Mapo-gu, he learns indulgence and restraint. Life quickly spirals out of control. It’s all a matter of temperance.

  
  
  
  


In Eunpyeong-gu, the wave finally stops.

He takes Seungyoun to a man-made park in Sinsa-dong. Spring is drawing near, making plants sprout and flowers blossom.

The past six months were fruitful—two spent alone and four with the boy of his dreams. He thinks about how he lost the world and how he gained it back, all in different ways but important just the same.

He leads them to a spot near the stream. Seungyoun reclines, his jade magoja blending in with earth. Seungwoo traces its buttons and embroideries. The grown lilac bushes make him think of painful but beautiful things.

_Omma, I showed my depths and for the first time, it wasn’t too much. I showed my tempest and he didn’t flinch._

_Omma, somebody is willing to take on a sea like me._

“Hyung, come here.” Seungyoun extends an arm, his eyes soft and glowing.

Seungwoo picks a fallen lilac sprig and tucks it behind his ear, sauntering to where Seungyoun is. They sprawl on the ground, side by side, the wind faintly smelling of tangerines.

**Author's Note:**

> Blame [this](https://twitter.com/archillect/status/1200673485783216130?s=21) photo. It was the trigger.


End file.
